


biological warfare

by patho (ghostsoldier)



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Crack, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, the questionable use of body fluids for magical intent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-27
Updated: 2012-11-27
Packaged: 2017-11-19 16:10:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostsoldier/pseuds/patho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It makes a horrible sort of sense that runes work this way, but Daud doesn't want it to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	biological warfare

**Author's Note:**

> The Dishonored fandom on tumblr is a bright, vibrant little community full of amazing meta and brilliant fic and beautiful fanart, and the occasional discussion on [the use](http://odditycurator.tumblr.com/post/35746516890/mugumugu-odditycurator-so-i-was-doing-some) [of semen](http://mugumugu.tumblr.com/post/35746547610/daud-jerk-off-on-this-rune-shhh-just-do-it) [for magical purposes](http://mugumugu.tumblr.com/post/35748038935/alucifer-replied-to-your-post-daud-jerk-off-on#). I, being the upstanding member of the fandom that I am, took that premise and _ran_ with it.

Blood makes sense.

 _Tears_ make sense.

This –

Well, it makes sense, but Daud doesn’t want it to.

“I’m sorry,” he says, after what feels like an eternity (and given the nature of the Void, that’s entirely possible). “I’m sorry, you want me to _what_?”

The Outsider’s expression doesn’t change, but Daud has the distinct feeling that somewhere behind that carefully constructed mask of blank, artful politeness, the creature is _laughing_ at him.

“I would prefer not to repeat myself,” the Outsider says. His smirk is small but deeply unnerving. “We are, after all, both very busy men.”

Daud narrows his eyes. He learned early on in their association that things in the Void could easily follow you into the waking world, and he’s not going to make the mistake of denying the Outsider outright or scoffing at his use of the term “men.” The Outsider isn’t human but seems to enjoy appearing as such, and Daud’s not stupid enough to argue.

That smirk, though. It’s unsettling.

Finally, he settles on, “It’s just an… _odder_ request than usual,” and jerks in surprise when the form in front of him shivers out of existence and another appears in the air _right behind him_.

The Outsider’s lips brush the shell of his ear. “Perhaps you require assistance?”

Daud twitches. His face is suddenly burning and his hands are like ice, and his heart gives a sudden, stuttery lurch before rapidly doubling its tempo. There’s sweat prickling at his hairline and collecting in the hollow of his throat, and as if taking his stunned silence for consent the Outsider settles his hands on Daud’s hips and delicately curls his tongue over Daud’s earlobe, _bites_ when Daud makes a strangled noise and tries to remember how to breathe.

“Interesting,” the Outsider murmurs.

Frantically, Daud tries to remind his hands that they should be doing something right about now: namely, halting the slow, deliberate march of the Outsider’s fingers towards his belt buckle. He knows at least two hundred and forty-seven ways to incapacitate a man with his bare hands, exponentially more if he adds his powers to the mix, and even though the Outsider isn’t a man at all there’s got to be at least _something_ that would work. And he tries – he really, honestly tries. The Outsider’s wrists fit into the curve of his palms like two puzzle pieces snapping together and all it would take is a carefully measured _twist_ —

Belt buckle undone, the Outsider focuses his attention on the trouser ties below. Daud’s breath rattles in his lungs, and the hair on the back of his neck stands on end. The body behind him feels nothing like the shadow he always thought it might; it feels solid, firm, _real_. Real as the hands deftly slipping beneath his waistband.

Daud’s paralysis snaps and he twists to the side, levels a hard jab of his elbow into…empty air. Shit. Not a half-second later he’s flat on his back, arms pinned over his head and chilly stones digging into his spine. The Outsider glares down at him, black eyes narrow and unamused.

“That,” he says, “was unwise.”

Given the look on the Outsider’s face, Daud decides against asking if he can do his trousers up again. Actually, it’s probably better that he not call attention to them in general; there are parts of his body (one in particular) that haven’t caught up with the current situation and remain annoyingly interested in the events that preceded it.

“I don’t like repeating myself,” the Outsider says, “but in deference to our _miscommunication_ I will do so exactly once. So. _Daud_. Here are your options: you can take care of matters yourself, or I can assist you. I trust we understand each other now?”

When Daud was younger, he likely would’ve made the mistake of thinking there were more than two options. Pure duality was foreign; nothing was absolute, nothing was black and white. Gradations existed in all things, gradual slides of one state to another. Ludicrous, to be given two choices when neither one is his.

But that’s the thing about the Outsider: he sees order, and he sees chaos, and he knows _exactly_ which he prefers. He sees the world in two colors and both of them are gray, and Daud knows without a shadow of a doubt that if he attempted to defer, if he offered up a third option, the Outsider would simply choose for him.

In a way, it’s freeing. Chaos has many nuances, but at the end of the day it’s still just _chaos_. He tilts his head back and exposes his throat, watches the cold, flat anger in the Outsider’s face fall away. “Go on,” Daud says. “I’ve chosen.”

The Outsider wastes little time. Daud lifts his hips just enough for his pants to get yanked down around his thighs and then the Outsider is upon him, a wet, shockingly warm mouth at his throat and a firm hand around his cock. There is absolutely nothing gentle about him; he is a storm, he is like drowning. He is all the terrible things that lurk in the deep dark places of the world, eyes and teeth and fierce alien intelligence. It would be terrifying, if it wasn’t so horribly, _agonizingly_ good.

Daud doubts he’s going to last long, but that’s probably the point. He digs his heels into the frost-covered cobblestones beneath them and arches _up_ , tempts fate and possible dismemberment by winding his fingers into the Outsider’s dark hair and dragging him in for a kiss. He tastes like blood and seawater and something darker, something wilder, and instead of taking Daud’s head off he just makes a hungry, pleased noise and kisses him back.

A sweetly vicious twist of the Outsider’s wrist sends electricity arcing up Daud’s spine. He groans, low and loud and shameless. He hopes, with sudden and desperate fervor, that none of the other Whalers are anywhere near his room right now. Things from the Void can carry into the waking world, after all, and he really doesn’t want to know what he looks like right now.

“You’re lovely,” the Outsider says against his mouth, as if he’s reading Daud’s mind (which, for all Daud knows, he is). He punctuates the words with a sharp bite. “You’re usually so stiff, my dear. So _formal_. If only you could see yourself like this, being taken apart inch by desperate little inch…”

Daud gasps. The muscles in his thighs and stomach are shaking, the lines of his body drawn almost painfully tight. The Outsider is stroking him with ruthless, terrifying efficiency, but it’s the playful indulgence in his touch that’s utterly undoing him and he’s so fucking _close_ , he just –

The Outsider leans down and licks a long, hot stripe up Daud’s throat and this, for some absurd reason, is what ends it. Daud jerks, scrabbling at the smooth, not-entirely-real leather of the Outsider’s coat, orgasm barreling up and through him until he’s raw and panting and shaken. The Outsider gently bites his jaw and pulls back, inspecting the mess on his fingers with evident satisfaction.

“Very nice,” he says.

Daud makes a face. He doesn’t feel entirely resettled in his own skin yet and he’s already beginning to regret this, dream or no. He rolls away and staggers to his feet, gets his clothing back in order. When he finally turns back, the Outsider is ignoring him in favor of the rune he now cups in the palm of one hand. He sweeps wet fingers over its carved surface, which flares bright and magnesium-white before dimming again.

“Very nice,” he says again, and tosses the rune to Daud, who catches it and frowns.

“You’re giving it to me?”

“Of course,” the Outsider says, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world.

“Why?”

For a moment, he thinks the Outsider isn’t going to answer. The cobblestones beneath his feet are already beginning to feel less substantial; soon, he’s going to wake, and hopefully the Outsider will never mention it again. Daud certainly doesn’t plan to. Relationships are difficult enough to navigate when both parties are _human_.

Then the Outsider sways forward, his too-smooth cheek just brushing Daud’s rougher one.

“You seemed tired,” the Outsider says. Teeth at Daud’s earlobe, small and sharp and precise. “This should help.”

And then he pulls back and blinks out of existence, and Daud jolts awake to find the covers tangled around his waist and one of the Whalers nervously shifting from foot to foot on the opposite side of the room.

“Out,” Daud snaps.

“We just—“ the man says, and now that his eyes have adjusted he can see that there are actually two men hovering there, awkward and anxious and _very unwelcome_. “We thought maybe you were being murdered?”

Daud hurls the rune and hits the speaker in the head. “OUT!”

The man yelps and blinks out of the room, his compatriot fast on his heels. Daud groans and flops back on the bed, scrubs the heels of his palms over his eyes as he tries and fails to forget the feel of the Outsider’s hands on his skin. Eventually, he sits up again, blinks across the room, and retrieves the rune. Its glow is altogether too smug for his liking.

Now that he’s thinking about it, the Outsider was right. He does feel better.

…dammit.

Daud returns to bed, and after a while, he dreams.


End file.
